FASHION

heading permanently towards America. It retells me those stories whenever I forget. I weave through Northwestern carrying the knowledge it holds: which cut of fish is best (meat closest to the tail) and how to pack your whole life into a small suitcase So many unspoken secrets are woven into the shawls my grandmother has gifted me.

It’s not just the antique, expensive items that get to live on. Almost every piece I’ve ever owned has a unique ability to transcend the realm of clothing and gain utility in other ways.

For this reason, I don’t think I’ve ever bought a rag.

I’ve used my dad’s old T-shirts, huge white masses with mismatching holes, to wipe up juice spills and dishwasher leaks. I’ve laid them down as padding while painting, and they turned purple and green from the runoff of color.

I went through stockings quicker than socks when I was little. They had jarring runs from toe to thigh within weeks, and they were too ruined for Sunday service. But every spring, my mom dug into my closet and pulled out the messy pile. She then sent my brothers and I out into the backyard to scavenge small leaves and blades of grass. She pressed the greens tightly onto an egg and wrapped it like a present within the stocking. I sometimes helped, holding the stocking as she tied the egg with a little string. Thisishowyourgreat-grandmother madeEastereggs. Nothing was ever without another purpose.

As an 8-year-old ballerina, I acquired my favorite dress. It was made of glittery white tulle with a sparkly crown to match.

My second favorite dress was a floor-length purple gown covered in flowers, which I wore almost religiously when I was 12. Both dresses are oceans away now, hanging in the closets of my little godsisters. Despite the distance, I know they’re cared for, just as I’ve loved every piece that has passed through me.